The night in the imperial gardens was brittle with silence. My stumble was a clumsy, loud thing; the twist of my ankle sent a sickening jolt up my leg. A hiss escaped me—a sound of pure frustration at my own carelessness.

He was there before the pain had fully crested.

There was no respectful distance, no murmured inquiry. One moment I was recoiling from the injury, the next the world tilted, and I was caged against a wall of unyielding muscle and linen. Arata had simply scooped me up, one arm a bar beneath my knees, the other locking across my back. The movement was swift, dispassionate, and supremely efficient. My hands flew to his shoulders, not to clutch, but to brace against the sudden, impersonal force of it.

He wore only a thin undertunic. My fingers, splayed against his chest, met not the familiar, ornate brocade of his formal armor, but the startling, quiet heat of his skin over solid muscle. It felt less like intimacy and more like touching a sun-warmed statue.

"Be still."

His voice was a low, flat command, devoid of its usual undertone of deference. It was the tone he used to assess a threat or clear a path. He did not look at me. His gaze was fixed ahead, already calculating the most direct route back. My earlier, softer thoughts about the boy he had been vanished, frozen out by the sheer operational coldness of his actions.

"Arata, release me." The order was breathless, more shock than authority.

He adjusted his grip slightly, a clinical securing of his load. His steps, already moving, did not falter. "You are compromised. Moving you is the only logical course of action."

"I forbid it."

"You may render judgment later, Highness." The title was a formality, a piece of protocol inserted into a sentence that dismissed my will entirely. "For now, you are injured. My function is to neutralize the situation."

He carried me not with urgency, but with a chilling, precise speed. The serene pools and arched gates passed in a blur. He did not pause at the Moon Gate. He crossed the forbidden threshold as if it were merely a geographic feature, his expression unchanging, a man executing a necessary, if unsavory, tactical maneuver.

The gasp from the cluster of maids in the outer receiving room was a sharp, unified intake. The senior attendant rushed forward, her face a mask of scandalized horror. "Captain Arata! This is—you cannot—!"

He cut her off without even glancing her way, his voice cutting through the room like winter air. "The Princess has a leg injury. You will fetch Physician Ko immediately. You," he said, his eyes flicking to a specific maid, "will bring the surgical kit and bandages to her chambers. You two, prepare hot water and linens. Do not gawk. Move."

The commands were absolute, ice-cold, and brooked no hesitation. They were not requests; they were the operating parameters of a crisis, delivered by its sole, detached controller. The maids scattered, their fear of protocol utterly consumed by the immediate, glacial authority in his voice.

He carried me through the heart of the inner chambers, his stride never breaking. He did not look at the painted screens or the intimate halls; he surveyed them as a soldier would a route through hostile territory. In my sitting chamber, he did not kneel or lower me gently. He bent and placed me on the divan with the same efficient, impersonal care one might use to set down a valuable but cumbersome object.

He then took three precise steps back, creating a measurable zone of separation. He stood at rigid attention, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes now resting on a point just above my head.

"The physician has been summoned. Your maids will attend you momentarily." He informed me, his voice once again perfectly, distantly respectful. The brief, terrifying engine of his will had been shut down, leaving only the cold, polished shell of the perfect guard. "I will remain outside to secure the perimeter until the all-clear is given. My... necessary transgressions tonight will be detailed in my formal report for your review and disciplinary action."